P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Countless possibilities start from a cluttered desk

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I’ve heard a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind. I’ve also seen the evidence for just the opposite: a cluttered desk is a sign of genius. A quote attributed to no less a genius than Albert Einstein poses a good question: Of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?

My desk isn’t so much cluttered as it is disastrous. I’m talking well beyond what the British might describe as a dog’s breakfast. Picture instead the aftermath of a tornado that’s ripped through a trailer park.

It’s not like there’s any shortage of storage. That’s no excuse. My rolltop desk features eight drawers and no less than 19 cute little cubbies. But each is crammed full of junk, most of which I haven’t touched since I stuffed it there years ago.

The surface of my desk is no less crowded with not only my laptop computer and printer, but also files, books and paperwork. The crowing touch, so to speak, are the baseball caps I brought back as souvenirs from scuba diving resorts.

I taped quotations and admonitions to a spot at eye level where they serve as ready reminders. 

“Write with confidence and authority,” one sign commands. “Show, don’t tell.” There’s more good advice. “Bring your characters to life.”

I also clipped and displayed comic strips.

My favorite “Pearls Before Swine” strip by Stephan Pastis pictures in the first panel two characters talking. 

“Where were you last weekend?” one asks.

“I went to a writers retreat,” the other answers.

The next panel shows four writers sprinting away, the pages of what are presumably their works in progress flying behind. One writer screams. “Run. Run. Writing’s too hard.”

Exactly.

In one sense, it’s a shame the bric-a-brac on my desk covers a beautiful 19th century heirloom. The desk belonged to my beloved late wife and before that her father and grandfather. I expect my sons will one day treasure their mom’s desk as much as she did. I’m just borrowing it until then.

I suppose it might be more efficient to maintain a militaristically clean desk. Still, there’s an argument to make for the benefits of a workspace that’s both comfortable and comforting. I’m distracted by the odds and ends that surround me, but also reminded of all the blessings I have to count. And that’s a good place, at least for me, from which to tell stories.

Is my mind cluttered? Do I boast an IQ of 160? Neither.

Thankfully, this much is certain: My mind’s not empty.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

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Nearly everyone has been asked that question — usually starting in elementary school, if not sooner. Nearly everyone asks that question of themselves — sometimes regardless of age or the stage of their careers. Although there are probably exceptions, I suspect the answers almost always change.

As a kid who grew up in the midst of the space race in the 1960s, I wanted to become an astronaut. Who didn’t? Subsequently inspired by what I read about Isaac Newton and Marie Curie, I wanted to become a scientist and make important discoveries. Those of a certain age will remember the chemistry sets that used to come in metal boxes. I got one for Christmas. And a microscope, too.

Then I discovered something completely different. I took a part-time job in high school covering sports for my hometown newspaper and found out how much I enjoyed writing and reporting. I pursued computer science in college, but switched to journalism at the beginning of my sophomore year and fared considerably better — academically, thank goodness, but also personally.

Although I’m now past 60 years old, my vocational aspirations remain pliable. Every bit as pliable, I suppose, as my definition of what constitutes growing up. I’m still in love with journalism. But I still wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up. 

Fighter pilot is probably no more a realistic goal at this point than lion tamer. Mountain climber sounds exciting, but also dangerous and, even more daunting, like a whole bunch of work. Still other possibilities come to mind. Maybe dive master? Leading scuba diving excursions through warm and clear water to tropical coral reefs seems like an enjoyable way to spend the workday.

If nothing else, I remain determined to change at least one of my job titles — from aspiring novelist to published novelist.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

What are you waiting for? I hope it’s not inspiration

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It’s time to reveal another trade secret — and, hopefully, some insights that could prove useful in newspaper journalism, writing fiction and other noble pursuits. The moral of my latest story? The importance of NOT waiting for inspiration to strike. It’s a cautionary tale.

I arrived at this subject after wandering again in what I envision as the desert of my mind. It’s a wasteland in there, one where no novel thought grows. That’s problematic, especially for an aspiring mystery novelist.

There’s this hopeful belief that somewhere out there in the universe awaits a source of inspiration. When I worked at an agricultural journal in Oregon, I used to joke with a newsroom colleague about sharing the muse when weekly deadlines loomed. “Aren’t you done yet?” I’d ask her with the same urgency as someone waiting outside a locked bathroom door. “Hurry up. I’ve got to go … write a story.”

You know what? I’ve yet to find the mythical Pierian spring that inspires whoever drinks its waters. And none of the muses has ever offered to lend a hand. Not once. They’re fickle that way.

That’s the thing about inspiration. You can’t wait for it — at least if you expect to ever accomplish anything. If I’ve learned anything in more than 40 years of writing to earn a living, it’s the fact you can’t force inspiration. Try it and see what happens. Go ahead. Open a file on your computer. Better yet, pull out a blank sheet of paper. It’s counter productive.

If it does occur, inspiration is far more likely to drop by when you least expect it — to come in like fog on little cat feet. Think “Back to the Future” and how Dr. Emmett Brown slipped while hanging a clock in his bathroom, hit his head on the sink and conceived of the idea for the flux capacitor that makes time travel possible.

The alternative in the meantime? Work your butt off and hope for the best. The prolific inventor Thomas Edison knew well the proportionality involved in describing genius as 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. By the way, Edison also said most people fail to recognize opportunity because it’s dressed in overalls and looks a lot like work.

The most important thing of all about inspiration isn’t so much where it comes from or when, but what you do about it. It’s difficult enough to come up with good ideas. For heaven’s sake don’t waste any of them.

I wasn’t initially inspired to write about inspiration. But now that I have, I’m glad I did. I can only hope you are, too.

Fun can be a funny thing

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I’ve often wondered about the nature of fun.

What is fun, really? We’re constantly encouraged to have it. More than a barrel of monkeys, if possible. Work should be fun. Weekends should be fun. Theme parks should be a whole lot of fun. And wedding nights … now those should take fun to a whole new level. Even if it isn’t supposed to be all fun and games, life clearly should include at least some fun. At least that’s the message.

Google “fun,” and the same terms show up: a source of enjoyment or pleasure, an amusing diversion. Yet, an image never accompanies the definition. Now, Google digestive system and follow the route from esophagus to rectum. Google warthog and take a good look at the wild African pig, wartlike protuberances and all. Fun, however, can’t be illustrated in a diagram or captured on film — or explained in a few words, for that matter.

An ephemeral thing, fun creeps up when least expected, tweaks a nose and then disappears without a trace.

Don’t look for fun in the obvious places. I’ve already tried, and it’s seldom there. As a child, I searched candy aisles and amusement parks. When I was a bit older, I was certain I’d find fun at Disneyworld. What I found instead was too many Snickers upset my stomach. So did roller coasters. Disneyworld was fun, but also required waiting in lines. A lot. Older still, I looked for fun in bars. I recall fragments of my 21st birthday and drinking something that was orange and served in a pitcher and set on fire. Big mistake. Huge. And definitely not fun.

I’ve rarely had fun at special occasions, either. My high school prom was supposed to be fun. My college graduation was supposed to be fun, too. Holidays like Christmas and New Years are supposed to be fun year after year. The problem is, events hyped as fun free-for-alls infrequently are. And I’ve waited, disappointed, for the fun to begin.

Fun is funny that way. Because places and activities considered dull, even dreary, turn out to be fun. I’ve had fun listing the principal exports of Brazil on a geography test. I’ve had fun at the office on a Monday afternoon. I inhaled so much nitrous oxide during one visit to the dentist, I giggled my way through a root canal.

Most often, though, I’ve had the most fun when I wasn’t trying to have any fun at all. The realization took me by surprise. I remember summer evenings spent riding bikes with friends in the small town in which I grew up. We didn’t have any plans or destination. We were just pedaling and talking until darkness fell and we had to go home. The start of school seemed like a million years away, and the summer break stretched ahead in an endless succession of carefree days. Everything just felt right.

These days, I experience the same feeling of contentment in scuba diving with my family or catching up with friends at a coffee shop — or, on those rarer occasions, writing a well-turned phrase. Neither a picture nor a thousand words quantify the pleasure of those moments.

It’s fun.